Decadent (But my love, this hopelessness is simply)
by moonlitememories
Summary: Of all the pain he had taken, all the tears he had shed and the distress he had caused, surely this would be the worst. His death was little in the face of it all, but it mattered, if he could save them, keep them. And Stiles was willing to die to keep them all safe. Major Character Death.


**I'm not going to apologize for the angst, because I'm not sorry. I hope I tug at your heart strings, and make you hurt as you read this, because it was supposed to be sad. I'm ah, revving myself up for my Stisaac story, and trying to finish a chapter in my Sterek.**

**Can we keep him, Daddy will have a new chapter up soon, I promise, I'm just...having troubles with it? Yeah, that seems to be the best way to put it. Still, there's this, and I hope you read it, that you enjoy it even if it hurts, and I do love a good review every now and then.**

**This is not a happy story.**

**Listen to Bleeding Out by Imagine Dragons on repeat while you read it. Trust me.**

* * *

Of all the years that he had seen, all the tears and the strangeness, all the things that had gone wrong and the things that had been set into motion by actions that were far from his control. Of all the years, all the horrors he had seen and of all the deeds he had done, this, no doubt, was by far the worst of his digressions yet.

There would be no coming back from this, no returning from this Hell once his deeds were done and his sins were sewn into the fabric of fate. And he was damned, for all that he was to do, for the actions he was to take and the souls that would crumble before him at the simplest touch of his hand.

What else could he do though?

What else could he do, except want to shove his hands deep within his own chest just so he could feel his heart beating, just so he could feel the splitting pain to know that he was still alive?

He couldn't feel it, couldn't hear it even though he knew it was probably pounding, rushing, it should have been throbbing in his ears, but there was nothing.

Nothing, save for the cold, quiet silence that danced all around him in the air, pulling at his raw skin and licking at his self-inflicted wounds. What use was he, if he couldn't protect them, couldn't save them, when all he had to do was take it?

All he had to do was take all of it, and they would be fine, everyone would be safe from the things they had done and the things he could do.

How many sins had he done in the last years of his life?

How many lives had he taken?

"Seventy-five."

How many times had he lied to his Dad?

"Thousands."

How many time had he seen the destruction that he could cause, the terror of their enemies?

"Hundreds."

Voice a whisper in the quiet, even it was lost, swallowed by the silence all around him where he sat on the cold cement floor. Abandoned, the building was abandoned, long emptied and lost in the desolace of the harbor on the cold, endless night.

There was blood, wet and thick, warm surely though he was numb to it, dripping down his arms like sweat and spilling from his eyes like tears.

Nothing was the same anymore, everything was wrong, broken, ruined, and he was death, too much, he had done too much, hurt too many and used his power as he had thought was right.

But nothing was right, and everything was wrong, and his world was spinning on a broken axis.

Around him, dark and quiet, there was a circle of ash, and with that, his body gave a pulse into the darkness, his head tipped down in tormented distress.

"I'm sorry."

Sorry, so sorry, he was so very sorry, but his pleas meant little, and his words of apology surely wouldn't matter. Not now, not after this, after the death and the tears, the screams and the blood he had shed. His words would mean nothing, his apologies would fall short.

What good could he do, his father had scorned him, what peace could he bring, his actions far too damned to be useful?

What innocence did he have left to shed, what life did he have left to give?

Hands going up, there were blood on them, the broken tips surely were aching, but he couldn't find it in himself to feel, couldn't find it in himself to care. His vision was blurred, his eyes were red, the gold of them burned black, and inky darkness of magic and death that had chased away the white, driven away the white.

The blood was dripping from his hands, and he pulled them close, pressing his bloodied fingers to first his cheeks, gathering a stream of extra here and there, before they touched his chest, a silent, pleading prayer falling from his chapped lips as he crossed himself, and then those hands went out.

No longer would he smile at his father, no longer would he laugh at his pack brothers, just as the warmth of his lover was no longer his to feel.

She had made sure of that, had taken his Alpha from him with her honeyed smiles and her coy words, had washed his eyes of his image and stolen their love from his mind.

He couldn't protect them if he lived like this, couldn't defend them if his darkness continued on, so his fingers stretched, and the patter of blood dripping to the ground was lost in the silence.

A quiet uttering, and words of wisdom and age he would never mutter again gave way to their last bit of life, and his body began to shake.

It ran, the droplets of blood, as if he were mounted on a pedestal, it spread out, bleeding into the ring of ash all around, and there was light just as there was heat, burning, scorching, climbing around him and above him to the ceiling of the abandoned building in a flash of life and loneliness.

A muted cry, because he could no longer make any sound, could no longer find his breath even as his chest expanded in a soundless wail for something more. And he was burning, boiling, melting from the inside as he poured his everything into his last bit of magic, into his last stand to protect them, to shelter them and right any wrong that had taken root in their lives.

The Darach would die, surely, hopefully, and they would be left alone, his family would be saved and his actions wouldn't be in vain.

It didn't hurt, but it should have, and maybe it did, because that was his back arching till it cracked, wasn't it? That was his mouth falling open, that was his blood falling from his own lips, his throat vibrating. The silence was deafening, but there was something worse, the wailing sound of finality and anguish that fell from his lips, though it didn't reach his ears.

The air was pulsing then, throbbing with a heart beat all its own, one that matched his in tempo and tune, and he was crying, chest heaving with his tears even as the breathlessness stayed, as the lack of air made him feel dizzy though he didn't once sway.

Everything was alight with his power, his final trial to set things right and rid their town, their lives of the beast whom plagued them, and it burned.

Derek didn't know him, not like he had, not with love sweetened smiles and small huffs of laughter, not with idle fingers of passion and a hold of comfort.

Derek didn't know him, and the others were dying, turning from him, leaving, but he could save them as the light grew brighter, blinding, and he felt it then.

The pain of it all, the ripping, the shredding as his insides started to pull apart, and despite himself he smiled.

Outside, the air was a cacophony of howls, of pain and a lack of understanding, for the air reeked of death, of fear and sorrow and him, and they didn't understand even as a pair of eyes went red with understanding.

He would never hear it, not as his body gave way and the blackness of his eyes started to slide away, not as his throat gave a last pathetic gurgle and he fell to his side on the cold floor. Head bouncing, blood splattering, it didn't hurt, but it did, and as his fingers broke the ring of ash, there was a bit of a blissful smile on his face.

He would never hear it, for he would never hear another thing again, but the man screamed his name, roared it to the wind as he came to himself.

He would never feel it, for he would never feel another thing again, but his skin grew cold just as they found him, just as whimpers filled the air and a familiar pair of arms lifted his broken body from the cold floor.

He would never know it, for he would never know another thing again, but the man was broken by his pain, by his heartache and his guilt at the sight of that lifeless body, those empty eyes, the blood.

He had saved them, in the only way he had known how, and he had taken himself from them to save them, and while the world was righted and all things were set back in their proper motion, nothing would ever be the same without him.


End file.
